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Pm,l2.i . ra4(s/ frami the/rowdy
From the lawn of the church where you played
organ as a child, pulled froward clumps of grass
from the earth, your knuckles flushed—you adopted
a stray, her eyes lucent, stealing light from the world
That spring, she gave birth to four kittens—two
survived. Summer came. They howled with fleas,
drenched your couch in piss. You shrugged it off,
so long as you were not home, and hummed non-songs
as you prepared for bed. Once, when you were home,
your hands moiled into tight little stones
They shot toward the floor, arms straining, ready
to snap from your shoulders. Childlike, you strode
to their squalid litter box, pointed, yelled—
your face swollen with the color of swollen flea
bites that wreathed our sock lines. Then your hands
loosened as you drew them to your chest, shrank
Into my arms, quietly wishing the cats had died
like their siblings. I wasn't supposed to see that
You cried also at their birth. When you called,
1 pictured them drenched in amniotic fluid,
shivering in your unheated apartment, eyes too large
for their heads, desperate to see the world. Only
two survived. Later that summer, the nurse
at the clinic said I couldn't come with you
Destruction's not something men are allowed to see
women—great creators of our society—do
Across from me, the father of a teenage girl—
the only other father in the clinic. Deflating
into his collarbone, his chin multiplied
(The kittens' mother, I'd later learn, did not eat
the placenta, which contains a chemical that makes
mammals more nurturing.) When you came out,
you were placid, glazed over with anesthetic
1 sometimes think of you--your eyes
like a cat's: sharp, glowing, as light is,
like some unwanted parasite, cast back out
I think of you wandering the clinic halls,
wonder how you felt under all that anesthetic
How you felt as it wore off. As you breathed in
and out. As you deflated into my chest
expletives DELETeD
It'KE KUZMISH Sqhomore
calming down after
a knee jerk response to a clever church
marquee
rather than read
i memorize ignoring the words
disgusted
by the sound of persuasion
in the voice in my head
cooing "every little thing is fine."
...if it weren't
I would say that thoughts are combust
but knowledge makes no difference
to the man who
refuses to act on his wisdom's
I shed a single tear
for he who thought the ticking
was anything other than
ERIC BOTTS
lemidr (wallet' Writing ,1141),
Where do you go? Even the rain refuses to fall on you the way you want it to. You want it to pour. You want to get soaking wet and feel so
incredibly bad for yourself... that you feel good. Almost like a slit to the wrist. When you get to the point where you need and crave to feel bad,
that one slice will make you believe you're worth it. Even for just a moment. But, the rain won't let you. You can't even do that.
You hear the thunder in the distance and the lightning is teasing you with its brilliance. But the sky refuses to break. The light drizzle makes
you even more frustrated than you thought you ever could be. Where do you go? What do you do? Everybody around you is asleep. Every
body else is high. You're stuck outside in the taunting storm; alone, and insignificant. Nobody wants you and you can't blame them. How could
you be a hypocrite when you feel the exact same way that they do? Even though the rainfall isn't good enough for you, there's no way you can
reject it. It still holds a more powerful role than you do. The connection you have is far too strong.
To go inside would be a wasted mistake. Materialistic figures would mock every move you made. The silence of the nothingness around every
corner would drive you mad. Cheerful people on television would make you sick. It will only bring up ghostly thoughts that you're trying to get
away from. The automatic light around the kitchen will make you remember that you're still alive.
If you sleep, you dream. Dreams aren't even dreams anymore. Every morning you wake up with a new nightmare unfolded right before your
eyes. Old memories and new emotions creep up without you having any option. If it was your choice, the sun would actually shine in the short
breaks between one nightmare and the next. Visions of death and heartache haunt the day ahead of you. No, you rather stay awake with the
silence.
So where do you go when you're not wanted inside, outside, or even in your own mind? People, places, objects, and you yourself are
ashamed to even consider your name. Where do you go? When do you leave? What do you think? How do you live? You don't. Take to the
darkness. Everyone and everything will forget you even existed. Maybe you finally will too.
He said, "Follow me down to the valley below."
The moonlight crept down our backs and slid over the hillside in a slow roll. It was as if the blades of grass turned an unmistakable
grey. I heard the undercurrent hit the bank, roll up and saunter back toward the horizon; the beach was just over the next knoll, a bit of a
geographic rarity. As we stepped down the hillside, it seemed that the bottom of the valley became further and further away. I trusted my
footfalls to my leader and to the darkness; it was as if the still air, just out of reach of the moonlight, was devouring my feet and legs.
"Watch your step. There're some branches about."
Occasionally my ankles would smack against a rotted twig, each cracking and slivering beneath my weight. The ones with thorns
stuck through denim and into skin, and each time, I pulled away. As we continued to descend, the branches became larger until eventu
ally I found myself face first into the mesh of two entangled saplings. Their thorns dug into my chest, stomach, and forehead. I cringed
and pushed off of them, taking a few steps to the right and descending further.
"When you see the fire, follow it."
He was right. Just off to our left, an immense light cut through the darkness like a cavern-ridden flare. For a split second, I could see
the sea of thorned brambles, and my leader, looking straight at me. He had an annoyed expression, as if I was taking too long, and I
could've sworn his eyes weren't the color they were earlier; probably just a trick the dark was playing on me. We began to walk toward
the rising flames. Blue orbs began to chase each other through the dancing firelight, laughing at us, at me. I put my hand to my right
pocket, then inside it, rolling around the locket you gave me years ago. If I could just see you once more, I would leave this place and go
back.
"Go back where?"
To our son's expectations, my father's drunken wit, the space between the bookcase and that old lamp, where I hid when the voices
were too much to take.
To the three-foot scratch on my new truck, the shine of your dimples in our last holiday portrait, the collection of knives you just
bought from a travelling salesmen; he said they wouldn't dull, but they'd never met the burnt skin of that year's turkey. .
To the closet of my boss' office where I watched him with the secretary, the look on your face when I told you, how Yuri barked when
ever you walked in for the first year; these last years, he sniffed and then licked your face. He still barks when I walk in.
'Welcome to Hell."
When you officially get to the point where you
can honestly say that nothing is going right...
You can't feel terrible to feel satisfied.
A>hete z`o ''et`ter-n
Erie County Sunrise
LOIS HEISE - Creative If ilferjoi
I)ESSTIA JONES - Sophomore
That is the very last thing we want.
Don't utter a single word and life will make sense again
NATHAN CARTER - Showeam Editoi